


five + one;

by boldly (techburst)



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: 5 + 1, Gen, M/M, Unbeta'd, fluffy crap, gladio being ... himself, gladio's brohoodie deserves its own tag, i'm really bad with tags i'm sorry, ignis being a nerd, mentions of noctis in passing, take your pick, varying canonpoints
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-05
Updated: 2017-04-05
Packaged: 2018-10-15 00:39:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10547074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/techburst/pseuds/boldly
Summary: five times ignis found himself in possession of an article of clothing three sizes too large, and one time he didn't need it





	

**Author's Note:**

> i started this about a month ago, give or take a day. had one section of it written and then let it sit forever _and_ a day, finally got inspired to finish it and. did it all in one sitting. this is the longest thing i've written for these dweebs to date, and hopefully ( maybe??? ) this means i'll find inspiration for more than just the fluffy stuff. ( i mean. i love the fluffy stuff, don't get me wrong. but sometimes you just wanna write smut. ) 
> 
> for sooz, as usual. ♥

**i.**  
Ignis doesn't get cold, if only because he's never been anything but _prepared_ on absolutely all fronts. Like a boy scout, but nerdier. If Insomnia even _had_ such an organization to outfit young men with the skills and knowledge they find themselves in need of in the future. 

( Like how to rub two sticks together to make fire in lieu of an actual fire spell. How to make sense of various flora and differentiate between the edible and _in_ edible. How to pitch a tent — 

Rest assured, the realization of having described one ( 1 ) Gladiolus Amicitia has been reached. That's neither here nor there. 

And who knows if there is any such thing as the Boy Scouts of Lucis. Maybe there is. Maybe there isn't. ) 

The point is that Ignis doesn't get cold, because he's always prepared, blah blah _blah_ — except for the one day he doesn't think to bring a jacket with him and the room in which one of his council meetings is being held is a bit draftier than usual. 

He shivers a bit while taking notes; nothing too terribly involved, and there are certainly no files or dossiers of persons of interest regarding prominent figureheads of Niflheim being passed around — no notable chancellors with hair the color of a boxed dye job and a chip on their shoulder roughly the size of Duscae — because this is a meeting of purely financial composition, and a certain young guardsman standing sentinel at the back of the room fears he might be dangerously close to falling asleep. Standing up. _Yes_ , it's quite possible. _No_ , it doesn't make him a disgrace to his family name. He's almost positive his father has done the very same thing at _least_ once. Maybe twice. 

( The Amicitias take their roles as protectors of the Crown very seriously. Never forget that. ) 

At the very least, the young guardsman in question has taken note of that shivering, and while there isn't anything he can do about it _presently_ , it takes little more than passing through the library a bit later in the afternoon, when he knows the other will be compiling his notes from the handful of meetings he's attended _just that day alone_ — 

And dropping the hoodie he has a tendency to sport when he's out of uniform unceremoniously onto the top of Ignis' head. Without a word. And sauntering away as though it were _perfectly damned normal_ to pass through the library, when it's a good handful of minutes out of his way, _just_ to dump a hoodie onto the head of the advisor to the prince. 

Ignis doesn't ask questions, but when Gladio finds it returned to him, it's been washed. And folded into such an impeccably perfect square that _un_ folding it would be somehow offensive, but when he does, he can't keep himself from grinning about the fact that it smells like a certain nerd's detergent.

**ii.**  
"Iggy. I'm dyin' here. Don't you think it's time for a break?" The future shield to the King is sprawled amidst piles of handwritten notes, in the middle of the main room of the Amicitia household, looking every bit as put-out and _done_ with the whole of everything as he's trying to convince the one still poring over his own handwritten notes. ( Much neater, one might think to add. In perfect print, except for the rare parts that are in perfect _manuscript_ , and Gladio sometimes wonders if Ignis doesn't take the time to _type up_ those notes once he's gotten back to his apartment. And print them out. For the sake of both uniformity and ease, or some such nonsense, because that seems like the type of thing he would do. 

Really. You could make his handwriting into a font, and it would be the most efficient thing in the whole of Lucis. End up being used Eos-wide in official reports. All kinds of documents. Why is he thinking about this? 

Because they've been at this for nearly a handful of hours, now, and he's pretty sure he's going to lose a couple of brain cells if he can't take a minute to collect them, put them back where they belong, and not leave them scattered about the notes and textbooks that surround him currently. ) 

There's a stretch of silence that has him thinking the younger either hadn't heard him, or is making a point of _ignoring him_ until those bright green eyes flick upward, concentration broken, a single brow quirked in a show of _you're making a much bigger deal out of this than there needs to be_ without so much as saying a word. Until: "Have you memorized the dates I gave you?"

A groan, and Gladio flops back against the floor, arms spread wide, staring at the ceiling like it might have the answer he knows Ignis wants to hear. ( Which is _yes, I memorized 'em, all fuckin' twenty of 'em, no problem._ Spoilers: that isn't the answer he's about to get. ) "Are we really supposed to care _that much_ about the foundin' of Lestallum? I thought the point was that it _was_ founded. Boom, it happened." He makes some vague motion with one hand in the air above him, some dismissive sort of thing that carries the weight of one that couldn't possibly care any less for the history of Lestallum than he already does.

Ignis, however, it unamused, and it shows in the way his brows knit into a furrow, in the way he reaches with the tip of his middle finger to push his glasses back up onto the bridge of his nose. "You're referring to a rather _important_ piece of history, Gladio." His gaze stays trained on the other for a split second, maybe a tiny bit more, and then it's back to his own notes. "If you have no intention of making use of the assistance I'm offering you, I've no issue with continuing my own work in the quiet of my own apartment." ( An empty threat, and they both know it, but let's be real here for a second — _it's a valid one._ ) 

Gladio outright _huffs_ , and pulls himself back into a sitting position, trying his best to put forth a cutting sort of glare that falls just short of its mark — really, it comes off more as disgruntled than anything else — and sweeps a hand back through dark hair. "All right, all right. Ain't gotta get all prissy on me." There's a glare in his direction for that, but he absolutely pretends not to see it as he pulls himself to his feet, pulls his _body_ into a stretch in an attempt to work out some of the kinks that have seen fit to settle in his muscles from having not moved for the better part of … he's lost count of how many hours, now, but let him assure you that it has been _several_. 

"I'm makin' a sandwich. Want anythin'?"  
"... Some water would be nice, thank you."

_Well, at least he didn't ask for coffee._ Even though he's taken to keeping a particular brand for a particular nerd, his stocks are running low and he thinks he'll have to remember to pick some up the next time he goes grocery shopping. Put it on the list. 

When he returns from the kitchen with both a glass of water and ( admittedly ) quite large sandwich in tow, it doesn't even _look_ like Ignis has moved from his own spot on the floor; there are still stacks of papers surrounding him, seemingly undisturbed. He's still sitting with his legs folded easily beneath him, and his eyes are still trained on one page in front of him, moving just enough to show that he is, in fact, reading, and not just staring like a zombie in one of the b-side horror films his little sister loves so much. No, the _only indication_ that Ignis Scientia hasn't remained so still for so long that he's found himself turned into a statue is the fact that his hands have all but disappeared inside the sleeves of an article of clothing that is, at the very least, three sizes too large for him, and Gladio can't help but to give over an amused snort as he reaches to hand the other his water. 

"I could turn up the heat, y'know. If you're cold."  
Ignis doesn't even blink. "That isn't necessary. I'm quite comfortable." Their fingers brush as the glass passes from one hand to the other, and Gladio smiles with the sort of fondness that seems, with increasing frequency, to be for no one but the other. 

"Sure, yeah. If you say so." 

He _tries_ to memorize those dates, but he would like to argue that the history of Lestallum has never been the most interesting subject, and it's even _less_ so when you're distracted. 

**iii.**  
They spend time in Ignis' apartment when they're closer to it than the Amicitia household, or when they want a bit of time to themselves that doesn't involve the entertaining of one ( 1 ) incredibly persuasive little sister. He cooks, because he's been convinced for _months_ that Gladio puts too much stock in his beloved Cup Noodle, and so much sodium is never good for one's diet, and _wouldn't you like to live beyond the age of fifty?_

( He doesn't get it. Amicitias are _hardy things_. It will take more than a little bit of salt to bring one down, and even though that's the very same argument makes every single time, it always ends the same way — a vegetable or two shoved in his general direction. At least he actually eats them. ) 

They sit together on the mostly-unused sofa that sits in one corner of his living room, either with each of them at one end with legs curled around one another in the middle, or both of them at one end, stretched along the length of it, a book in one of Gladio's large hands as its twin traces small circles over a pale forearm. He reads aloud sometimes, when it's a title they have mutual interest in — and it _isn't_ one that Ignis has procured through means unbecoming of one expected to be _above_ snooping, and thus read ahead a handful of chapters — and more often than not, the advisor finds himself drifting in and out of consciousness, so comfortable and warm and _relaxed_ with those long arms wrapped around him that he forgets, for a bit, that he has obligations outside of soaking up the attention Gladio seems to give so damned freely. 

( It isn't something he'll ever take for granted, or even _expect_ , even for all he doesn't need to. Gladiolus Amicitia is never without a grin just for him, the smallest excuse to touch — whether to pick away an invisible bit of fluff from the front of his shirt, or to push too-long bangs out of his eyes, or to tug him in for a kiss when they're out of sight of prying eyes — and to say that he'd found himself acclimated to it would have been an understatement. He wonders, sometimes, if it's dangerous, getting so wrapped up in someone else. Wonders if it will, in future, find some way to keep him from doing his job effectively. 

But then Gladio kisses him, and he forgets _that_ for a little while, too. ) 

One such night finds him drifting back towards wakefulness without the memory of having slipped away from it in the first place, and the first thing he realizes is that he's alone on the sofa. There's far too much space — even for how little there was to begin with — and he's comfortably warm even without the presence of that much larger body, a thought which has his brows furrowing. And bringing about the subtle sound of paper crinkling. _What —_

The warmth, at least, he can attribute to the way a three-sizes-too-large hoodie is draped over him, almost like a blanket, effectively covering him from shoulders to nearly the bend of his knees. The crinkling of paper ends up being a sticky-note pressed to his forehead, beneath his bangs, which at least makes its removal easier than it would have been otherwise. Ignis squints at it in the low light, picking through the familiar chicken scratch that serves as Gladio's handwriting, and sighs. 

_Couch is even smaller than the bed. If I'm asleep when you come in, don't worry about waking me up._

He's never asleep when he comes in, anyway. Sometimes, he pretends to be — still, quiet, until the first dip of the mattress that means a knee is set against it, and then arms are reaching for him, pulling him in close against a bare chest, nose pressed against a temple as that smaller body settles in as easily as if it had never done anything else before it. Like the space against Gladio's side had been made for him, and him only. 

It's a hell of a lot more comfortable than that mostly-unused sofa. Maybe, one of these days, he'll get a new one.

**iv.**  
If there's one thing that doesn't come easily out of white fabric, it's coffee. 

And if there's one thing Ignis Scientia _will not tolerate_ , it's a stain that refuses to come out. 

And if there's one _more_ thing that Ignis Scientia will not tolerate, it's one ( 1 ) Gladiolus Amicitia poking fun at him before he's even had a chance to have his first cup. There are certain things one _just does not do_ before he's had that first cup — even the first _sip_ — and asking things like "Think His Majesty's had 'the talk' with Noct yet?" is a surefire way to ensure that first mouthful doesn't go where it's intended. 

There's a rather undignified sputtering noise, muffled by the press of lips to the rim of his mug, and Ignis coughs almost delicately in an attempt to cover it while simultaneously shooting the other an absolutely _cutting_ look. "How is that at all appropriate conversation?"  
A shrug. "I'm just sayin'. _Pretty sure_ I saw a hickey on the kid's neck durin' trainin' the other day." A pause. "Think it's that Prompto guy he's been hangin' around?"  
"I daresay that isn't any of our business." But it was. _Is,_ and Ignis' brows furrow with a thought or two along the same vein, picking through the previous few days' interactions between himself and the Prince. There had been a few times in which he'd been late getting to the car after school, a few _more_ in which he'd dodged any question given to him about the day's activities. ( _Nothing worth mentioning_ , he'd said, brushing off any further advances before they could even so much as be made in the first place. ) 

He's so lost in thought that it takes the clearing of Gladio's throat to bring him back around to the here-and-now, and an, "Uh, Iggy —" to have his gaze dropping down to his front and finally taking in the spreading stain over the front of his shirt. He _sighs_ , and it's a long-suffering thing, even as he stands and begins pulling buttons through their holes and shirking the ruined thing from his person. 

Half of his coffee remains in its cup, while the other half is slowly turning the pristine white of his shirt into something closer to beige, and already he can feel the beginning of a headache behind his eyes. "I'm going to be late, now."  
"... Why?"  
"Surely, you don't just expect me to _leave this_ as it is?" Green eyes narrow as he makes his way over to the kitchen sink, turning on the faucet and running the stained shirt beneath it. Gladio … just rubs at the back of his neck, not bothering to hide that he doesn't understand, because there are very few avenues of thought Ignis follows that he _does_ understand from the start, and he chalks that up to the difference between Ignis Logic and Everyone Else Logic. 

"... Yeah? What happens if you do?"  
"You've no idea how difficult coffee stains are to get out. Of _any_ fabric."  
"Ah." 

Quiet falls, broken by the splash of water and the scrubbing of hands against one another with a layer of fabric between them, and the occasional soft sigh that filters up from the back of Ignis' throat. Even like this, there's a meticulous sort of precision to his movements, practiced and poised and certain, and Gladio is pretty sure that that kind of parallel shouldn't be drawn in regards to something like _laundry_ , but then again, take into consideration just who you're thinking about, and it might start to make a shred of sense. 

Ignis finally turns off the water, shakes out the wrinkles and inspects his handiwork with — what Gladio sees as — far too much scrutiny. It's a _shirt_ , nerd. Not the secret to solving all of life's problems encrypted in some dead ass language. "I think you missed a spot."  
"I should make you pay to have it laundered. This is _your fault,_ after all."  
"How's it _my fault_ you missed your own damned mouth?"  
"That —" There comes that sigh again, long-suffering and short-tempered, and fingers press to the bridge of his nose in much the same way as when he's dealing with a particularly belligerent Prince. ( But we aren't thinking about Princes, are we? Or their extracurricular activities. Or whether or not they know about _protection_ — )

"… Damn it."  
"What's up?"  
"That —" He pauses, hesitates again, standing there in the middle of his kitchen, fully dressed from the waist down and looking every bit as though he could spit fire. "That … was my only clean shirt."  
Gladio can _not_ help but chuckle. "You're shittin' me. You, who's always prepared for damn near anythin', who keeps not just _one_ spare change of clothes in the barracks, but _two_ —" He has to stop, just for a second, because he's dangerously close to losing his shit and with the way Ignis is looking at him ( _glaring_ at him, more like ), he's more likely to spit that fire on the back of his tongue _at him_ than in any other direction. " _That_ was your only clean shirt?"  
"Laundry day comes much more quickly when you've lost track of time." 

Oh. Well. That _would_ explain it, wouldn't it? And it's through no real fault of his own — because it's all there, in separate piles of both whites and colors, delicates and everything else, ready for him when he returns from work that evening — but in hindsight, he should have thought to leave more than one article of clothing at his disposal, especially when taking into consideration one ( 1 ) Gladiolus Amicitia had stayed over the night before, and he never takes for granted anything the other is capable of. 

Up to and including being the reason he's now considering setting aside _three_ spare changes of clothes. For just such an occasion.

Gladio, meanwhile, is still convinced this isn't as dire a situation as Ignis seems to think. "So, what. All you gotta do is make it to one of your spares, and you're good." His head tilts to the side, a slow grin spreading across the line of his mouth despite the still-icy glare of bright green in his general direction.  
"And how do you suggest I get to it?" His own head tilts, in the opposite direction, brows lifting almost to the point of disappearing into his hairline. Gladio's gaze drops, just enough to find himself distracted by the dip between collarbones, the intermittent dark spots that serve to mark pale skin in such a sporadic way that they couldn't even be considered _freckles._

His hoodie lay draped over the back of a chair, and he gestures to it idly with a shrug. Ignis rolls his eyes. "I've a meeting in —" His eyes flick over to the digital clock on the microwave and back again. "Half an hour. I won't have time to change before then. Would you care to explain to His Majesty just _why_ I've come to sit in dressed so inappropriately?"  
Gladio just shrugs. "It's either that or go in shirtless. Show off those shoulders."

The tips of Ignis' ears are still tinged pink by the time he takes his seat, but no one asks why the royal advisor looks as though he's seconds away from blowing a gasket, or why he's wearing a piece of clothing three sizes too large.

Some things just need to be left alone. 

**v.**  
The way fingertips trace over skin, it feels like the first time all over again, even in the lull of the afterglow when breaths are slowing and hearts are slipping back into a rhythm that sounds less like the kick of a drum in the center of one's chest and more like something _human_. Gladio has lost count of how many times he's counted the ridges of the other's spine, down and up and down again, rubbing tiny circles in the spaces between just to hear the soft, pleased sound that comes from it. To feel that smaller body curl in closer, a hand so much smoother than his own in comparison slipping over the planes of his stomach, blunt nails dragging over the curve of his ribs just beneath the lines of an inked beak just to feel the way he almost _squirms_ with it. 

There's always something of a glare for that, but it's half — quarter — hearted at best, and never stays for very long. Because there's always the press of a kiss to the underside of his chin shortly after, and the hum of sheer contentment he gives for it blankets everything else around them in this ridiculously warm, intimate cocoon that holds the two of them and no one else, because there isn't any _room_ for anyone else when they're like this. When they're allowed, once again, to forget their obligations and enjoy the slow, lazy kisses and press of hands that surface from real contentment. From years spent mapping one another out in the greatest detail, etched in breath and the skim of teeth over skin, until there's not an inch of them either one could forget. 

( Even if they _would_ , just to learn it all over again. And again. And _again._ ) 

Gladio is nearly asleep, he thinks, or lingering somewhere precariously between one thing and the other when he hears the whisper of his name against the hollow of his throat, and a small grunt is the only thing he gives in initial response. Until it comes again, a bit louder, accompanied by the poke of a finger to the very middle of his sternum. "Nn — what?"  
"I have to get up."  
"No you don't."  
"Yes, I _do._ " 

( Because that's all the other is getting, because even something as simple as _I have to pee_ is not something that Ignis Scientia would ever catch himself saying out loud, even if the way his bladder is currently protesting the fact that he _hasn't moved yet_ is making it difficult to keep it so tight-lipped. ) 

"Okay, okay —" There's the beginning shift of movement, and one long arm retracts from the way it had been curled around that much smaller frame, and Ignis sits up with a small stretch. Pulls his body taut in such a way that Gladio finds himself staring at the way muscles pull and tense beneath skin ( bruised and marked with the press of his teeth, of fingers curled against hips to hold him still, hold him _close_ ), and his throat goes dry all over again, sated and lazy and _content_ as he is. 

Ignis moves to crawl over him, and he catches him for the smallest second, the brush of fingertips against the inside of an elbow that have him pausing as the older leans up, captures lips in a kiss that's slow and unhurried, as soft around the edges as many would argue the guardsman incapable of, and despite the urgency that begs the younger to move, he stays. Just long enough to kiss back with a seemingly innocent flick of his tongue that ends up chased away by the follow-up nip of his teeth. 

"I'll be _right back_ ," he murmurs against the other's mouth, like it's somehow a reassurance that he really was just going into the next room, and not the next _country._ There's a grin to it, something teasing that earns him a nip in return.  
"I know."

Gladio turns to watch him as he straightens on unsteady legs — something that brings about some indecent level of obscene smugness — watch him as an outstretched hand closes around the first thing it comes into contact with, which ends up being his previously discarded not-quite-three-sizes-too-large-anymore hoodie draped across a pile of unfolded laundry, and _not_ Ignis' own properly-folded shirt right next to it. 

Something swells, almost _burns_ in the middle of his chest, and his heart beats with it, a steady march that carries that warmth all through him as shoulders roll and arms raise, covering pale, bruised skin in dark fabric that still, admittedly, nearly comes to his knees. 

"Hate to see you leave, but I love watchin' you go —"

Funny, isn't it, that Ignis doesn't even have to _think_ to glance over his shoulder in order to fling something over it, and _funny_ , isn't it, that it smacks Gladio right in the face. 

It's a sock, and at the very least, it's _clean._

**vi.**  
They're all exhausted. The past few days' drive has taken them so much father away from Insomnia than any of them had ever thought they'd see, and while they'd found safety and refuge in a handful of havens up to now, there is no denying the good a night's rest in a _real bed_ would do them all good. More than good. 

The evenings have been holding a bit more of a chill to them the more distance they put between themselves and the Crown City, and when they finally pull into a motel, a shiver is working its way down the very middle of Ignis' spine even before he opens the Reglia's door and steps out onto the pavement. He pays for their accommodations, pulls the lapels of his jacket a bit more tightly around him and returns to see to their belongings — only to find that Gladio has already done as much. Seen their two younger companions to their shared room and come back to retrieve him to see both of them to their own, and not without the sort of grin that says _I got you covered_ without saying a damned thing at all. 

( Something in Ignis both swells and deflates — the former, the sort of affection and fondness that he's kept with him all these years, and the _latter_ with the weight of obligation beyond that of himself from his shoulders, even if it's just for the night, even if he has to pick it up all over again come morning. ) 

That shiver is still steadily attempting to trickle through him even as they make their way inside, even as the door closes behind them with a near-inaudible _click_ and the sound of their bags being set down on the floor. Ignis busies himself with taking his phone out of his pocket, checking both messages and emails, and is so easily lost in something so simple that the slide of an arm around his shoulders nearly manages to catch him by surprise, even if the following nuzzle behind his ear is little but predictable. Even still, he leans into it, his phone and everything on it forgotten as he sets it aside, rests nearly all of his weight against the other. 

Gladio hums against his ear, soft and soothing, just this side of contemplative as a kiss is dropped to his hair, and Ignis thinks, distantly — selfishly — that he might just be lost without this. Fumbling around alone in the dark, for all the other's presence serves as a foundation upon which he's built so many, many things. 

"Want me to run you a bath? Ain't gotta worry about runnin' out of hot water." Another hum, and the younger tips his head back just enough to brush the tip of his nose over the line of Gladio's jaw, the barest touch, but an allusion to something deeper, should there be a want for it. 

There is _always_ a want for it. "A bath sounds _wonderful_ ," he breathes out softly, and there's a pause, a kiss to the underside of his chin. "If you'd care to join me —" 

There might not have been room enough for two — at the very least, not for two of men their size — but if their years together have spoken for anything, it's that they can make even the most unseemly of things work in their favor. 

And they will not be bested by the size of a bathtub in a motel just outside of Cleigne.


End file.
